


Showers are for Flatmates

by reveling_in_mayhem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, I don't know, I was being silly, M/M, Sherlock doesn't understand or care about personal space, Showers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:17:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24354193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reveling_in_mayhem/pseuds/reveling_in_mayhem
Summary: Looking back, John was unable to pinpoint exactly when it was that Sherlock began to follow him into the loo when he was showering. He remembered being outraged the first time. He had just started to wash his hair, working his cheap shampoo through the short strands, when the door he had definitely closed was flung open, banging against the wall with a crack like a gunshot, and the madman’s voice was raised to be heard over the sound of the water in what could only have been a continuation of the conversation they had the previous night about a case they were working.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 50
Kudos: 335





	Showers are for Flatmates

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Las duchas son para los compañeros de piso](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25201519) by [lockedin221B](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221B/pseuds/lockedin221B)



Showers, the kind where the water is so hot that flesh flushed red with the heat and felt like it could melt from the bones, where anxiety and the clutter of unpleasant thoughts washed down the drain along with the dirt and sweat of a day well lived, were one of the simple pleasures that John looked forward to. A chance to simply be alone, to breathe, to be in his body if he wanted, or out of it if he did not. To think or not think as he needed. 

He should have realized sooner that it would just be another part of his life that a certain consulting detective would invade upon. 

Looking back, John was unable to pinpoint exactly when it was that Sherlock began to follow him into the loo when he was showering. He remembered being outraged the first time. He had just started to wash his hair, working his cheap shampoo through the short strands, when the door he had definitely closed was flung open, banging against the wall with a crack like a gunshot, and the madman’s voice was raised to be heard over the sound of the water in what could only have been a continuation of the conversation they had the previous night about a case they were working. 

“We need to go back to the crime scene so I can check the mud there. There’s something in the sample from the victim that I can’t figure out…”

“Jesus, Sherlock! Get the fuck out of here!” John had shouted at him, but he didn’t seem to care. Of course, he didn’t. 

“I need these samples, John,” Sherlock replied, completely unaffected by the fact that John was screaming at him, that he was in the shower, that he was cursing the man’s entire existence as the shampoo was stinging his eyes as he tried to rinse it out. 

“So get out of here and get them!” He yelled through the vinyl shower curtain, but the shadow of his flatmate didn’t move.

“Hurry up, John. We need to get there before it starts to rain,” Sherlock carried on without any care to John’s anger.

“If it rains, then you’ll get mud. Otherwise, it’s just dirt,” John grumbled as he resigned himself to apparently having to get out of his shower to follow Sherlock to some blasted crime scene. 

It was silent for several moments while John quickly scrubbed his body. Then the shadow outside the curtain spun around. 

“John, you’re a genius!” Sherlock declared and took off out of the loo without another word. 

By the time John had shut off the water and toweled off, Sherlock was already gone and he was left standing with a towel around his waist in the middle of their empty living room. 

Well then. Guess he wasn’t needed after all.

*

The next time Sherlock charged into the loo was no less shocking, but slightly less rage-inducing. At least this time he was already out of the shower, a towel wrapped securely around his waist, as he stood in front of the mirror and applied shaving cream to his face. He was lucky the door hadn’t hit him when it was swung open. Unfortunately, he had been mid-shave with his razor and the sudden entrance had caused him to nick his chin. 

“Damnit, Sherlock!” he grumbled as he felt the sting of the cut burning into his skin. He watched the blood bead up, but before he could get a piece of tissue to stop the bleeding, Sherlock was there and had stuck a piece to his face. The tissue adhered to his skin thanks to the blood and John forced himself to take a deep breath while everything in him wanted to scream.

“You should be more careful while shaving, John,” Sherlock admonished him, and John held back the impulse to punch his flatmate. He would have deserved it as far as John was concerned.

“You should learn how to knock,” he griped, but then turned back to face the mirror. 

Anything he said would roll off the back of the oblivious detective, so it was best to just get whatever this was about over with. He took his razor and rinsed off the gathered cream. Then he tilted his face and started to shave the other side, methodically working his way back towards his chin. He had made three swipes with the razor before he realized Sherlock was still standing silently behind him. He glanced up at Sherlock’s reflection in the mirror and saw that he was examining John with the same intensity that he examined a murder victim. He ignored the flutter in his stomach at the heightened scrutiny. 

“Was there something you needed, Sherlock?” he asked, and the man appeared to blink back to consciousness and met John’s gaze in the mirror. 

“Yes, we’re out of milk,” he informed him and John stared at him.

“Did you really come in here to tell me we’re out of milk?” When the man nodded John fought off the urge to roll his eyes and looked back at his reflection. “You are aware you are perfectly capable of going to the shops and buying milk when we’re out, right?” he asked. He picked off the tissue that was still on his face, made sure the bleeding had stopped, then carefully finished his shave while studiously ignoring the taller man hovering behind him.

When he gave his razor a final rinse through the warm tap water and then returned it to its customary spot, he noticed that Sherlock was no longer there. He couldn’t recall when the man had left. Perhaps he had actually gone to pick up milk.

The thought flitted through his brain, and then he laughed out loud at his reflection.

There was no way Sherlock went to buy milk.

*

John wasn’t sure why he didn’t just start locking the door when he was in the shower. Perhaps there was some small unconscious part of him that didn’t mind Sherlock standing in the small room with him, his shampoo and soap scenting the steam that circulated them, with the full knowledge that it was only a flimsy shower curtain that separated them.

Or perhaps he just recognized that if he locked the door then Sherlock would find a way to get in anyway. The man was like a hunting dog on the scent when there was something he wanted. It appeared using John as a sounding board no matter the location was one of those things. 

So the next time Sherlock burst through the closed door, mouth running with the speed of a freight train, John was surprised by the abrupt entrance, but not the entrance itself. 

At least this time he had finished his hair and so didn’t have to deal with shampoo getting in his eyes. He was just working his loofah -and yes, he had a loofah because he liked the way his soap lathered up on it as opposed to a flannel- down his legs when Sherlock made his appearance.

“John, I need you to hurry up. Lestrade just called with a case. Triple homicide in an abandoned warehouse. No obvious connection between any of the victims. At least, none that they can find,” Sherlock ran off, and John felt the smile that rose on his face at the obvious disdain for NSY’s finest in his tone. He made no reply, though, as he continued to wash his body.

The silence stretched for several moments before Sherlock grew impatient.

“John, did you hear me? Hurry up. Homicide. Warehouse. Now.” He commanded, and John offered him a questioning “hmm?” in response while safely hiding behind the shower curtain.

He watched Sherlock’s shadow throw a hand up dramatically. Could envision the pointing finger. “I know you heard me! I’m giving you one more minute to get out, or I’m flushing the toilet,” he threatened.

“Oh no you won’t,” John shot back. “I’ll get out when I’m good and ready. You can either wait for me or go ahead and I’ll meet you there.”

“Thirty seconds,” Sherlock informed him.

“Sherlock, I swear to God if you,” John managed to get out, but the rest of his sentence was drowned out by the sound of the commode flushing and the water in his shower went instantly to freezing. “Damnit, Sherlock!” he roared as he jumped out of the now glacial spray. He was unable to reach the tap to turn off the water to escape. He flung open the curtain and jumped out where he found himself face to face with a very calm consulting detective, who stood before him holding a towel. John yanked it out of his hands and quickly rubbed the cold water from his face and body, nudity be damned. “I hate you,” he intoned flatly. 

Sherlock shrugged, and John didn’t miss the way his eyes flickered quickly over his body before he turned and walked out of the room. 

John sighed. Then he wrapped the towel around him and made his way up to his room to get dressed. There was a triple homicide that needed to be solved.

*

He wasn’t sure why he had started. He really should have known better by then. But, well, sometimes he just really enjoyed a good wank in the shower. Especially after a rather exhilarating chase on foot and the solid tackle of a suspect that his old rugby mates would have been proud of. Adrenaline was still coursing heavily through his veins and he just needed a release. He needed a shower first, though. 

As he stood under the spray, the hot water relaxing his muscles and his brain, he took himself in hand and gave a leisurely stroke, just to test out the situation, and wasn’t at all surprised to find himself go from half-interested to fully hard in a couple of strokes.

Something about soap bubbles and hot water just made the shower a perfect wanking place, and he let his mind wander as he held himself tighter, then pinched a nipple with his free hand. He groaned quietly, the sound swallowed by the sounds of the water from the tap, and moved to pinch the other nipple. 

It was then that the door swung open and Sherlock ambled in without a care in the world.

“John, are you almost done in there? I would appreciate some hot water for my shower if you don’t mind,” he complained. 

John wasn’t sure why, or at least if he did know why he didn’t want to fully look it in the face right then, but the sound of Sherlock’s rich baritone at the moment, even while complaining, had John biting back a moan as he grew harder in his fist. 

_Oh God_ , he thought. He was so close and there was no way he was going to stop now. He closed his eyes as he thrust harder into his fist. 

“John?” Sherlock called out after a moment, and John bit his lips tightly together to keep from making any noise.

Another moment of silence passed and John had never been so thankful for how loud the water groaned through the pipes of their flat. Almost there…

“That was a great tackle tonight, John,” Sherlock’s voice suddenly cut through the sound of the water, and it had to have been his imagination that it was deeper than before. “It was very...impressive,” he continued, and John sucked in a sharp breath as his orgasm stole over him.

He threw his head back, breathing heavily but trying to hide that fact, his ears ringing, while he waited for his brain to kick back online. That was quite possibly the best orgasm he had ever had in a shower. 

“I’ll just give you a minute to finish your shower,” Sherlock’s voice cut back through his consciousness, and John lowered his chin and turned his head towards the curtain.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” he said and was surprised at how calm he managed to make his voice come out.

He heard the click of the door being shut and turned to hastily wipe down the tiles in the front of the shower that he had somehow managed to decorate. Damn. That had been one hell of an orgasm.

It was after, when he was in his room and getting dressed in his pyjamas, that he realized that there was absolutely no way that Sherlock hadn’t known what John was doing in the shower. And if he realized that, then he likely knew exactly what he was doing when he complimented John.

The idea didn’t bother him as much as he would have expected.

*

At some point, and John wasn’t sure exactly when it was, but he started to always assume that Sherlock would make his way into the loo while John showered. It didn’t happen every day, but it was more often than not. 

John had been concerned that the incident with the wanking would make things awkward between them and perhaps keep Sherlock out of the room when John was showering, but it wasn’t a concern. Two days after the incident Sherlock swanned into the room while John was just getting into the shower after waiting for the water to warm up. He had had enough cold showers while in the army. He’d be damned if he was purposefully going to wait under a cold spray of water if he could help it. 

He had just pulled the curtain closed when Sherlock came in. He wasn’t entirely sure if Sherlock had seen anything, but he wasn’t concerned either way. He had an amazing arse and he knew it.

He stood under the spray and let the warm water cover his face and hair and drown out any outside noise. When he reached for the shampoo he glanced through the curtain and saw the shadow of Sherlock as he stood near the sink.

“Do you need something?” he asked. He enjoyed the feel of the lather and bubbles on his fingers as he worked the shampoo through his hair. He stood directly under the spray again to wash the shampoo out, but Sherlock continued to remain quiet.

“Sherlock?” he asked again, and he pulled back the curtain a bit to peek out at his friend. “You ok?”

Sherlock looked up at him from where he now sat on the closed lid of the toilet. He opened his mouth once, then closed it again. 

John arched a brow at him. “Cat got your tongue?” he teased lightly, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him.

“Hardly. I was just thinking,” Sherlock said. 

John closed the curtain and went back under the water. He got his soap and loofah and started to wash his body. 

“Thinking about what?” he questioned after a few moments of Sherlock’s continued silence. 

“Oh, nothing in particular,” Sherlock replied, and that was an interesting notion. 

“Since when do you think of nothing in particular? You’re always thinking. Usually about very specific things.”

“Not always,” Sherlock corrected him, and John nodded thoughtfully, though Sherlock couldn’t see it.

“Yeah, I suppose you would know better than me what you’re thinking,” John said with a chuckle, and he heard Sherlock’s soft laugh in reply. 

They both fell silent while John continued to clean his body, then rinse the soap from his skin.

Oddly, it wasn’t an awkward silence. And considering it was happening while John showered and Sherlock sat on the closed lid of a toilet, that was saying something. When he was about to shut off the water, Sherlock’s voice drifted through the curtain.

“I ordered Chinese for dinner. It should be here by the time you’re dressed,” he informed him, then he stood up and left. 

John turned the tap off. He got out of the shower, grabbed a towel, and dried off. The whole time he wondered what exactly Sherlock seemed to be trying to not think about. 

*

He wasn’t sure when the conversations that took place there began to change. Sometime after the "Incident", for sure. It had been gradual, he knew that, but no specific fixed point stood out in his mind. It used to only be about cases or that rather ridiculous time with the milk. Slowly, though, it evolved into more. John would be showering, and suddenly Sherlock would be there in the room discussing the results of his latest experiment, or what he hoped his next one would accomplish. 

John found he didn’t mind these interruptions to his showers so much. He had begun to look forward to them and missed them when he managed to spend an entire shower alone. He was aware this wasn’t exactly normal flatmate behavior, but he also didn’t really care. He skirted the border of normal on a good day, and his flatmate showed up naked save for an Egyptian cotton bedsheet at Buckingham Palace. Normal was not a concern for them.

If he was completely honest, he enjoyed these conversations. There was something pleasant about them. Sherlock seemed more relaxed when they spoke through the curtain of the shower. He was more open about his thoughts. The man once spent an entire shower talking about how as a boy he and Mycroft used to pretend to be pirates when they visited the beach, and John would admit he spent even longer in that shower than he usually would just because he wanted to keep Sherlock talking. 

The stories he ended up telling John about were often charming and delightful in a way that John wouldn’t have expected. And it wasn’t just the stories. It was how Sherlock told them. For a man who prided himself on his analytical brain and ability to divorce himself from feelings, he was a natural-born storyteller. His stories didn’t hide behind facts or reason the way his deductions did. They were nuanced and entertaining. 

John didn’t think Sherlock was aware of this. He was fairly sure if he ever brought it to the man’s attention how affectionately he spoke of his dog growing up, or the stories he shared of the summers spent in France with his grand-mère, that he would stop talking about them. John didn’t want the stories, these windows into the real man behind the consulting detective facade, to stop. So he listened, and smiled behind the safety of his shower curtain, and made sure his words were carefully said to encourage further discussion. 

On the day that Sherlock told the story of the first time he pushed a needle into his vein, John cried. Silent tears fell down his cheeks and the water from the shower washed all the evidence of it away. John had often wondered what had brought such a brilliant man to drugs in the first place. He hadn’t expected that he was so young. He was fourteen the first time. Fourteen! He said he just wanted to forget for a while. Forget the bullies, the verbal and then physical abuse of his peers, his loyal pet being put down, his first love, his first heartbreak. 

John’s heart broke for his friend, and he wondered, not for the first time, if he was the first person that Sherlock had ever told his stories to.

*

It was after a case. A rather grueling one. They had been after their suspect for over a week before they finally caught him. 

John stood under the hot spray of the shower, hoping that the water would work its subtle magic and help him to rid the images of Sherlock with a knife at his throat. John had almost been too late. It had been too close of a call. He had taken off, his long legs catching up to their suspect moments before John could, but those moments had been enough for the man to pull a knife and somehow manage to get his hands on the detective. Behind his closed eyes he could still see the well of blood that had risen on Sherlock’s throat as the man brandished his blade. If John had been a second later…

He rubbed his hands roughly over his face. It didn’t bear thinking about. He wasn’t too late. He had managed to subdue the suspect. He had wanted to put a bullet in him, but somehow he controlled that baser instinct and found a way for them all to leave alive.

He had yelled at Sherlock, after. Unable to hold back the tide of anger and fear and anxiety that had flooded his system, his mouth dry and his blood thundering in his ears. Sherlock took too many chances. Went off without him and someday, John dreaded, he would not be there in time to save him. 

Sherlock had been quiet during the entire episode as it took place in their living room. Stood there, stoic and silent, while John railed and cursed and then eventually stormed off.

He had been under the too-hot cascade of the shower for several minutes, just letting the water wash the torrent of emotions that had assaulted him for the last several hours down the drain, when he heard the door open, then shut again.

He hadn’t expected Sherlock to follow him in. Not today. He felt another flash of anger and frustration, but he kept silent in the shower. Waited for the man to say something. When nothing came, he let out an irritated huff of breath, and finally reached for his shampoo and washed his hair, raked his fingers against his scalp so hard it almost hurt. Rinsed it off. Then he got his soap and started to wash his skin. Scrubbed the loofah hard enough against his skin to make the skin red as the blood rushed up at the onslaught. 

The sound of the rings sliding against the metal rod that held the shower curtain up cut through his thoughts, as did the unexpected gust of colder air. He turned and blinked in shocked surprise as a very naked consulting detective strode into the shower behind him. 

He opened his mouth to say something, he wasn’t sure what, but then Sherlock stepped impossibly closer, crowding him under the water. His large hands came up to cradle John’s face and their eyes locked. Neither spoke, just breathed, or didn’t breathe, John wasn’t sure, he was getting dizzy from the heat of the shower and the rush of emotions that had collided in him earlier, and now he was standing under the water with Sherlock on the wrong side of the curtain, but no, it was the side he needed to be on, right now, to know that he was alive and well and the blood that had bloomed on his throat earlier was gone, washed away, and no, he was sure now, he definitely wasn’t breathing. 

He gasped, took in a great lungful of oxygen, stared into the silvery eyes that were focused so intently on him. Eyes that read everything, saw everything, and now seemed to finally see John, all of John, and accepted what he saw there. 

Sherlock bent his head, the water from the shower breaking down over his dark hair, and pressed their mouths together. 

His lips were warm against his. Softer than he would have imagined considering his ability to throw words like knives from his mouth. Slick from the water that poured down over both their heads and faces. Sherlock’s mouth was perfection and John wanted more. Needed more. He opened his mouth, gently sucked on Sherlock’s bottom lip, and Sherlock made a noise deep in his throat that caused John’s knees to go weak. 

The loofah he still somehow held in his hand fell to the bottom of the shower and his free hand went to the back of Sherlock’s neck, fingers slipping into the wet curls at his nape, and his other hand went to Sherlock’s chest, fingers splayed against the warm, slick skin. He felt Sherlock’s heart thudding hard under his hand and reveled in the strong, steady, accelerated beat. 

The kiss was tender, tame. A gentle exploration of lips and skin heated from the water of the shower. Sherlock’s hand traveled from his face to his neck, down his shoulder and arm, to rest on his hip. Fingertips pressed into his skin and he felt his entire body come alive, spreading from that point of contact through every inch of him. Their mouths opened against each other, tongues tasting, and the kiss moved quickly from tender to passionate. Hands wandered and caressed, and they pulled each other closer. John was reminded very forcibly exactly where they were and just how naked they were when he felt Sherlock’s arousal against his lower belly and his own against the taller man’s thigh. 

They both gasped at the sudden touch, which turned into a groan as they pulled each other  
even closer, their bodies pressed hard together. 

There were things that needed to be said, spoken aloud for them both to hear, but there would be time for words later. At that moment, they moved on instinct alone. It was time for feeling, for showing, for proof of life. For breathless moans and clinging embraces that would end in bruises on both of their bodies. 

All he knew were Sherlock’s hands on his hips as he held him close, the taste of him on his lips, the sounds he made when John scraped his nails down his back and sunk his fingers in the glorious roundness of his arse, the way his body arched against him. 

They reached out to grasp each other, hands tightened around hot, silky flesh as they chased their pleasure. John kissed down Sherlock’s jaw, his neck, and when he gently bit on the rapid pulse he found there, Sherlock cried out and John felt the heat of his release against his stomach and over his hand, and it tipped him over the edge and into the freefall of his orgasm as it washed over him. 

Heavy puffs of breath moved against his head as Sherlock’s breathing slowly returned to normal, but the taller man kept his arms wrapped tightly around him. John delighted in the feel of Sherlock’s heart beating wildly inside his chest as they held each other, their bodies calming together. He pressed his lips against Sherlock’s neck again, then worked up his jaw until he stole his mouth in another kiss.

After several minutes Sherlock broke their kiss, and John chased after him, but his large hands came up to cradle John’s face again. 

“I’m sorry I worried you,” he spoke against John’s mouth. 

John pulled back and opened his eyes. Met Sherlock’s as they searched his.

“I know you are,” he said. “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” he apologized, but Sherlock just shook his head. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize...” Sherlock started, stopped. His brows were scrunched down, the little dip between them prevalent, and John felt his chest tighten at the look in his eyes.

“I know you didn’t. I never said,” John asserted. 

“Not in words, no,” Sherlock agreed with a small quirk of his lips, and John couldn’t help the soft laugh that bubbled up, and Sherlock joined him with a small chuckle of his own.

John raised a hand to cover one of Sherlock’s as he held his face, turned his head to kiss the warm palm. “I can’t lose you, Sherlock,” he confessed, unable and unwilling to hide the sincerity behind the statement. 

“You won’t. I’m afraid you’re rather stuck with me now,” Sherlock promised, and John smiled before he wrapped a hand behind his detective’s head and pulled him down for another kiss.

After a moment he pulled back and grabbed Sherlock’s shampoo from its spot in their shower and squeezed some into his palm. He reached up and pushed his fingers through Sherlock’s wet hair. The earthy scent of rosemary and thyme from the expensive shampoo permeated the steamy air while John worked it into a lather. Sherlock closed his eyes while John massaged his fingers through his hair and the taller man practically purred when he scraped his nails against his scalp. His cock gave an interested twitch at the sound, and he huffed out a breath at himself. He carefully led Sherlock back until he could rinse the shampoo from his hair. He grabbed Sherlock’s soap next and his loofah from the bottom of the shower. He scrubbed Sherlock clean, the rich sandalwood scent joining in with the herbal medley from his shampoo, and John couldn’t help the smile that rose to his lips as he breathed in the scent. It was the scent of Sherlock that he caught when the man turned with a dramatic swirl of his coat from a crime scene, when he was lounging on the sofa in a snit over something, or when he was sitting quietly at the kitchen table in front of his microscope and John subtly breathed him in as he passed him to get to the kettle. 

“Come on,” he said as the water rinsed away the bubbles from Sherlock’s skin. “The water will be getting cold soon.”

Sherlock reached behind him and turned the tap off while John opened the curtain. He grabbed two towels and passed one to Sherlock. They dried their bodies, eyes warm and soft as they watched each other. When he was finished, Sherlock tossed his towel on the ground, then took John’s from where he had wrapped it around his waist and let it fall with the other. He grabbed John’s hand and pulled him into his bedroom. John watched as he quickly rummaged through his drawers and tossed a shirt and a pair of pyjama bottoms towards him. 

“They might be a bit long, but they’ll work,” Sherlock proclaimed, but John caught the hint of shyness in his tone. 

He decided to not mention that he could just walk upstairs and get his pyjamas. He would come back down if Sherlock wanted him to. Instead, he reached for the clothes provided and slipped them on. The bottoms were too long, but the shirt fit surprisingly well. He looked up and saw Sherlock had finished dressing and was back in the loo brushing his teeth. John followed him in there, stood beside him as he readied his toothbrush, and scrubbed his teeth clean. Their eyes kept meeting their reflections in the mirror, and they smiled around their toothbrushes. When they were done and made their way back into Sherlock’s room, John didn’t hesitate but pulled the duvet and sheets back before he climbed right into the large bed. He settled down on his side and watched Sherlock as he got in beside him. They laid down facing each other, and John pulled the bedding up around their bodies, cocooning them in the warmth of the soft cotton, their bodies pressed gently together, and the humidity from the shower being dispersed by the open loo door into the bedroom. 

His hand came up to push back a damp curl from Sherlock’s forehead, to trace a cheekbone with his fingertips, then his mouth with his thumb. Sherlock was beautiful and he could hardly believe he was allowed to touch him like this. He leaned forward and Sherlock met him with a tender kiss.

Later, when his arms were wrapped around Sherlock as they breathed together, he thought back to how he once looked forward to showers alone. He had actually thought about locking the door to keep Sherlock out, at one point. What a foolish thought. He couldn’t have kept Sherlock out of his shower any more than he could have kept Sherlock out of his heart.

He let out a soft laugh at himself. 

“What’s funny?” Sherlock questioned, his voice low and rough on the verge of sleep.

“It’s nothing. Go to sleep, Sherlock,” he murmured before he placed a kiss against the back of his neck.

“Mm. Goodnight, John,” Sherlock sighed, already mostly back asleep.

John’s heart beat hard in his chest. Heaven help him, but he loved the man. He tightened his arms around him, and Sherlock shifted against him with a contented hum. 

“Goodnight, love,” he whispered into dark curls that tickled his lips and smelled of expensive shampoo.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this silly fic of mine! I hope you enjoyed it. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated and loved beyond measure. 💖


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